The Divide
by FarDareisMai2
Summary: Entry into the Weekly One Shot Challenge: To forgive is an act of compassion. It's not done because people deserve it. It's done because they need it. Fifteen years after the Were Reveal, the world is a much different place. Minor spoilers through DAG.


_A/N: This is my entry for the weekly one-shot challenge, for week 20. As usual, my gratitude to Gallathea for her beta skills._

_As always, CH owns the Southern Vampire Mysteries. I just like to play in her sandbox.  
_

_Week 20's Challenge: To forgive is an act of compassion. It's not done because people deserve it. It's done because they need it._

_I've never written anything inspired my a song before, but this song has been haunting me since I first heard it. _

Inspired by _New Divide_, by Linkin Park

_I remembered black skies, the lightning all around me  
I remembered each flash as time began to blur  
Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me  
And your voice was all I heard that I get what I deserve_

_So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean  
Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes  
Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between  
Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies across this new divide_

_There was nothing in sight but memories left abandoned  
There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow  
And the ground caved in between where we were standing  
And your voice was all I heard that I get what I deserve_

_So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean  
Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes across this new divide_

_In every loss, in every lie, in every truth that you'd deny  
And each regret and each goodbye was a mistake too great to hide  
And your voice was all I heard that I get what I deserve_

_So give me reason to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean  
Let the floods cross the distance in your eyes  
Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between  
Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies across this new divide  
Across this new divide, across this new divide._

It had been fifteen years since the end of the Fairy Civil War and the Were's Reveal. The subsequent human backlash collided with those events, erupting in individual civil wars around the globe, as various countries, and all of humanity, attempted to come to grips with the realization that most of their myths, legends, and fairytales were, literally, true. Religions were toppled, and others were fervently adhered to. Governments and economies collapsed, while others flourished amidst the chaos.

Parts of Western Europe—Great Britain, Italy, France, and even Catholic Spain and Portugal—and Scandinavia remained whole, and intact, their inherently accepting natures absorbing the information, and a steady flow of immigrants. The Middle East was scoured, and if a supe was left alive in those lands, it was by the most impossible subterfuge. Africa was a risky proposition, but it was rife with civil wars before the Great Wars anyway.

The United States became a nation divided once more, only instead of North and South, it was divided down the middle. It was a war of ideologies: the more liberal east and west coasts versus Middle America. You could probably have used election results from the years leading up to the Great Wars, to illustrate exactly how it fell out.

Unlike other wars, this one was not caused by an invasion, or by the bombing of a fleet, or a terrorist act. This one began slowly, with riots, attacks on individuals in their homes, and a general breakdown of civil order, resulting in martial law and the complete collapse of the federal government.

Things moved quickly in Louisiana. New Orleans, which had flourished with the Great Revelation, and all things vampire, had not yet recovered from Hurricane Katrina, and as a result, old prejudices were easily re-established, particularly in the state's rural areas. Even in the larger cities, such as New Orleans and Shreveport, all supe owned businesses were targeted, and eventually so were the people who patronized them, or associated with them in any way.

In many ways, Bon Temps was an unusual town. While the people there were primarily blue collar, tight for money, and generally considered ignorant by outsiders, they were perversely loyal, and protected their few supernatural denizens. Old families such as the Bellefleurs, Fortenberries, and DuRhones, all stood fast against the tide of hate. Even old Bud Dearborn, who never met a vampire he liked, but hated lawlessness even more, stood against the tide. Eventually, however, The Fellowship of the Sun remembered the death and arrests of their members in that small town. They remembered that a telepathic barmaid, who was closely associated with vampires, brought in the FBI, resulting in a shoot out. It didn't matter to them that their members had planned to kidnap the woman, or that she had been betrayed by one of her former friends. All they saw were "freaks," "sinners," and "abominations before God."

So it was, that on a cold, January night fifteen years ago, I found myself speeding to that small, hole-in-the-wall town. Fangtasia had been closed for weeks, but I had not yet left. I was still wrapping up the details of my finances, and making sure all my people were safely relocated. Felipe had put me in charge of the evacuation of the entire state. Most would go to Nevada, but Louisiana was considered a lost cause. One of my contacts, and my contacts were more important than ever, overheard Sookie mentioned by name, and immediately informed me that the Fellowship intended to make an example of her.

My bonded, my wife, if only according to vampire law, was still stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the depth of our bond, and like a fool, I had not yet brought myself to force her to listen. Then came that night, when all of our lives would change.

I was on my way before the call even ended, pushing the engine of my Corvette as hard as if I was on the Autobahn. I arrived at Merlotte's to find the entire place up in flames, and loyal Terry desperately trying to put them out. He told me they were at Sookie's.

When I arrived, I found a small scale battle raging. Bill's home was on fire, and it was spreading to the surrounding forest. He was not even in the country anymore, but the humans laid waste to their own history anyway. I recognized the werepanthers from Hot Shot, including Jason, with Sam by their side, fighting an ever advancing army—and that is what it was, a small army. I immediately saw that even with my speed and strength, and the abilities of the weres below, that it was a lost cause. We were outmanned and outgunned in every direction. I could sense Sookie inside the house, and with my preternatural speed, I ran to her. She was my objective. She was my sole purpose.

Of course, she defiantly refused to leave. She demanded that I stay and help. _She_ wanted to stay and help, although what use she could be trapped behind her sofa, which was already riddled with bullets, I had no idea. I tossed her over my shoulder and flew out the window of her upstairs bedroom, as she kicked and screamed for me to put her down. I saw the chaos below as we flew away, and watched as Sam went down under a spray of bullets. I prayed to the gods of my human life that his death was quick, and that he would be honored by those who protected warriors.

I felt the wet warmth coating my hands seconds before I smelled her blood. "Sookie!" I called out, but she was already unconscious and dying, the victim of a random bullet that arced upwards instead of into the house. I landed in a clearing somewhere between Bon Temps and Shreveport, and laid her on the ground. I tore her shirt, and found where the bullet had entered her, most likely rupturing her spleen. Fate had sent me a sign. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Sookie," I called to her, willing her through the bond to look at me.

"Is it bad?" she asked.

I couldn't answer.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay," she said, trying to comfort me.

But it was not okay. My fangs extended, and her eyes went wide. "No, Eric. No."

But I was selfish. I could not, would not, let her go, despite my promise to her—the only one I have ever broken. I waited a thousand years for her, and I was unwilling to wait a thousand more. I sank my fangs into her neck, and for the last time I took my fill of her, draining her until almost nothing remained but the faintest echo of her heartbeat, and then I tore my wrist and held it to her mouth, forcing her to swallow.

Three nights later, we stood amidst the destruction of her home as maker and child, lover and bonded, husband and wife. The bodies of her loved ones still lay among the smoking ruins—there was no one left to bury them—twisted and burned, their bones strangely contorted from the heat of the flames. Throughout the parish, and the town, everyone she ever loved, everyone she ever counted as a friend, or kin, was gone. The Fellowship had been thorough, and the mayhem they incited rivaled that of the maenads.

I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. "You could have done something," she said.

I sighed. I had already explained it to her, but she insisted on seeing it for herself. The ashes from the still smoldering forest fell, coating the ground like snow, and the sky was dark with clouds of smoke, despite the full moon.

She turned to look at me, her eyes filled with accusation, and in that moment I'd never felt further away from her. A chasm had arisen between us, and I did not know if she would ever forgive for saving her, for damning her, for letting the others die.

"Is it . . . am I everything you wanted? Everything you deserve?" she asked, the venom in her voice sitting just beneath the surface of her insecurity and her love.

Fifteen years together, and the accusation in her eyes has not faded. Not when we feed. Not when we make love. Not even as we stood at the top of the world, with the snow and ice swirling around us, solemn witnesses to the grandeur before us. No matter where we went, what we saw, or what we shared, that pain was there. It was every lie. It was every regret. It was every truth that she denied.

Every year we return. At first, we came in secret, afraid to be discovered, but eventually the world saw reason, or a semblance thereof. Even many of those who thrived on hate and killing had grown tired, and hypocrites called for peace, citing scripture and saying the time for war was over. The easily led masses nodded in agreement, welcoming with open arms those they had previously banished.

Fifteen years I've spent trying to erase, or at least ease, those memories. Fifteen years of trying to wash our love clean of my mistakes—of fighting my feelings, of failing her during the Fairy War, and perhaps even, of failing to save anyone else that night. Fifteen years of trying to fill the chasm that had formed between us. Fifteen years of failing at it. Fifteen years of love and desperation. In many ways I was living a half life, and it was killing me.

We approached the graveyard that once sat between her home and Bill's. It was impossible to differentiate in those days between the bones of all the victims, so we buried them together. Eventually, when we were allowed to return publicly, we placed a monument there, dedicated to those who fell to the hatred. Three years later, we added Bill's name, after it was confirmed that he was among those destroyed in a mass incineration, somewhere in the South America he loved so well.

After we lay the flowers down, and bowed our heads for a moment, she turned to me. Her eyes were rimmed in red as she reached out and took my hand. We began to walk to the place where her house once stood. It is now a small park, which sits amidst the slowly encroaching forest. A sign calls it Compton-Stackhouse Park, and the plaque recounts the history of the homes that once stood there, the history of their occupants, and the tragedy that befell them all—that befell us all.

She walked ahead, and stood at the edge of the chain that ringed the dedication plaque. After a moment she said, "Gran used to say, 'To forgive is an act of compassion. It's not done because people deserve it. It's done because they need it.'"

And then she turned to me, her head cocked to the side, and asked, "Do you need it, Eric? My forgiveness?"

There was no point in asking if I deserved her forgiveness. I had never regretted my decision, and I never would. I needed her by my side. The alternative was unimaginable.

But did I need it? Yes.

And then, as if the memory of her grandmother's words shifted something within her, she said, "I forgive you, Eric."

And with those four words, the divide was crossed, the distance in her eyes was gone, and the space between us was filled once more.


End file.
